Part 1 

The first time I realized my sister Maragold might actually hate me was the morning she smiled while zipping up my wedding dress.

It wasn’t the kind of smile people give when they’re happy for you. It was… small, tight, like a secret pressed between her teeth. The photographer said, “Beautiful, ladies! One more shot!” and I swore I saw her jaw tense—like she was grinding something invisible.

My name is Lila Hayes. Thirty-two. Nurse practitioner, control freak, mild peanut allergy, moderate cat allergy, severe pollen allergy—pretty standard suburban cocktail. For the last eight years, I’d been managing my allergies through weekly injections I stored in a small lockbox in the refrigerator.

Those shots had saved my life more times than I could count.

I never thought I’d have to question whether they’d been tampered with.

The morning of my wedding started like a movie scene.
Sunlight filtered through sheer curtains in the bridal suite of the Bellamy Inn—a renovated century-old mansion in northern Virginia, all whitewashed brick and sprawling lawns. The air smelled like lavender and champagne. My bridesmaids were buzzing with excitement, curling irons hissing, mimosas clinking.

Maragold—my older sister by two years—sat in the corner chair by the window, scrolling on her phone. Her bridesmaid dress was a deep rose satin that made her look like she’d stepped out of a catalog. Her hair was a perfect auburn halo, and every move she made seemed choreographed.

We’d always been opposites: I was the planner, the list-maker, the fixer. She was the free spirit, the one who “never meant any harm” but always left emotional wreckage in her wake.

Still, she was my maid of honor. Because family. Because Mom would’ve wanted that.

“Can you hand me my allergy shot?” I asked her, halfway through makeup. “It’s in the small cooler by the vanity—silver case.”

She didn’t look up from her phone. “You’re still doing those? Even today?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Routine maintenance dose. My allergist said missing one before the wedding wasn’t smart.”

She sighed dramatically, stood, and walked to the cooler. I didn’t watch her closely—I wish to God I had. She opened the metal box, pulled out the small prefilled syringe, and handed it to me with a smirk. “You know, you’re the only bride I’ve ever seen inject herself on her wedding day.”

I laughed it off. “What can I say? I’m a catch.”

I sanitized my arm, jabbed the needle into the subcutaneous layer just below the skin, pressed the plunger, and tossed it into the sharps container I’d brought.

That moment—the click of the lid closing—was the last normal thing about my wedding day.

Two hours later, I was standing at the end of the aisle, veil lifted, heart pounding. My fiancé, Caleb, looked every bit the picture-perfect groom—navy suit, dimples, that soft gaze that always made me feel seen.

We’d met at the hospital three years ago—him, a paramedic with a crooked grin; me, the nurse who cleaned up his mistakes. He proposed on the top of a fire lookout tower in Shenandoah, right before a thunderstorm rolled in.

And now, here we were.

The officiant started speaking.

But halfway through the vows, my lips started to itch. Just a little.

I brushed it off—nerves, probably. Then my palms started to burn. A prickle of heat crawled up my neck. My chest tightened.

My brain went clinical, fast: hives forming. throat constricting. airway swelling. early-stage anaphylaxis.

Caleb saw it before anyone else did. “Lila?” he whispered.

I gasped, clutching my throat. My vision blurred. The world tilted. Someone screamed.

“EpiPen!” Caleb shouted. He tore the skirt of my gown, trying to find where I usually kept it clipped. One of the EMT guests—ironically, one of Caleb’s coworkers—rushed forward, already holding an injector.

The pen snapped against my thigh. I heard the familiar hiss of epinephrine, but it wasn’t enough. My throat kept closing, like invisible fingers were tightening around it.

“Get another one!” Caleb yelled, panic breaking his voice.

The second EpiPen didn’t work either.

By then, the reception room was chaos—people shouting, someone calling 911, my bridesmaids crying. And in the blur of movement, I saw her.

Maragold. Standing near the arch of white roses, arms crossed, face perfectly calm.

And when our eyes met—just for a second—she smiled.

A small, private, satisfied smile.

I woke up hours later in the hospital, an oxygen mask strapped to my face, my throat raw from the breathing tube. Caleb was there, slumped in a chair beside me, his eyes red.

“You scared the hell out of me,” he said when I opened my eyes.

“What—what happened?” I rasped.

“Anaphylaxis,” he said. “Severe. We had to intubate. The epinephrine wasn’t reversing it. The ER doctor said it’s like your system didn’t respond at all.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” I whispered. “It always works.”

He squeezed my hand. “They’re running labs. They’ll figure it out.”

But deep down, something icy crawled through me. The way the EpiPens failed. The way Maragold looked at me. The way she’d been the one to hand me the shot that morning.

When the nurse came in to change my IV, I croaked, “Can you have the lab test the vial from my injection bag? Please?”

She nodded, confused but obliging.

Later that night, Caleb stepped out to make calls. The room went still except for the rhythmic beep of the monitor.

And that’s when I saw her.

Maragold, standing in the doorway of my hospital room. Still in her bridesmaid dress.

“Hey, sis,” she said softly, her voice honey-sweet. “You gave everyone quite a scare today.”

I couldn’t speak. My throat still hurt too much.

She walked closer, the heels of her shoes clicking on the tile. “You know,” she continued, “I tried to tell you not to make everything about control. About perfection. Maybe if you’d listened, things would’ve gone differently.”

Her smile grew sharp. “Get some rest. Big day tomorrow.”

Then she left.

And I lay there, staring at the ceiling, heart hammering against the oxygen flow.

Because I suddenly realized something that made my blood run cold.

She wasn’t talking about the wedding.

She was talking about what came after.

Part 2 

When I woke up the next morning, the room smelled faintly of antiseptic and plastic flowers. My throat ached like someone had dragged sandpaper through it. The nurse came in, adjusted my IV, and said cheerfully, “You’re lucky to be alive, Mrs. Hayes.”

Mrs. Hayes. The words hit like a dull echo.
The wedding never finished. The ceremony stopped somewhere between my collapse and the ambulance sirens. No certificate, no vows, no ring exchange—just chaos and panic.

Caleb hadn’t left my side all night. His suit jacket was wrinkled, his hair a mess, eyes rimmed red from lack of sleep.

“How long was I out?” I croaked through the oxygen mask.

“About fourteen hours,” he said softly. “They had to sedate you after the intubation. You were fighting the tube.”

I nodded weakly. “Did they find out what triggered it?”

He hesitated, and that silence—God, that silence—was worse than anything.

“Tell me,” I whispered.

“The allergist called,” he said. “They tested your serum. The one you injected before the ceremony.” He paused. “It wasn’t your normal formula.”

I stared at him. “What do you mean ‘wasn’t’?”

“The lab found traces of peanut protein and shellfish antigen mixed into it. High concentrations. Enough to send anyone into shock, even someone without your history.”

I felt the world tilt. My stomach twisted so violently I nearly vomited. “That’s impossible. It’s stored in a sealed vial. I—I always lock the case.”

He leaned closer, voice breaking. “Lila, someone switched your shot.”

I spent the next few days in the hospital, recovering physically but falling apart mentally. Every second, I replayed that morning in my head—every detail, every moment.

I remembered Maragold opening the case. Her smirk. The way she said, “You’re still doing those?”

And that smile at the wedding—the one that didn’t belong at a tragedy.

By the third day, the police arrived. A detective named Evelyn Duarte came to take my statement. She was calm, patient, and had that quiet intensity that made people tell her the truth without realizing it.

“Mrs. Hayes,” she began, “we’ve confirmed the vial from your kit contained contaminants—specifically peanut and shellfish antigens, both lethal for someone with your profile. We’re treating this as deliberate tampering.”

“Deliberate,” I repeated. The word stuck in my throat like a shard of glass.

“Yes, ma’am,” Duarte said. “Can you recall anyone with access to your injections before you administered the dose?”

I didn’t want to say her name. But my conscience wouldn’t let me lie.

“My sister,” I said quietly. “Maragold Hayes.”

The next day, the detective returned—with questions, and something new in her eyes. Pity.

“We spoke to your sister,” she said.

My heart stuttered. “And?”

“She claims she didn’t touch the shots. Says she only handed it to you. She was very… defensive.” Duarte leaned back, studying me. “But she also mentioned that you’ve had ‘mental health issues’ in the past, and that maybe you’re under a lot of stress with the wedding.”

I laughed bitterly. “Of course she did. That’s classic Maragold—create the storm, then play the victim.”

“Would you say you and your sister have a difficult relationship?”

“That’s one word for it.”

Growing up, Maragold was always the golden child. The kind who got suspended from school and somehow convinced our parents it was the teacher’s fault. She’d get drunk at sixteen, crash Dad’s car, and still be treated like a misunderstood angel.

I was the opposite. Straight-A student. Reliable. The one who covered for her when she “forgot” to come home.

But everything changed after Mom died.

Mom’s death shattered us, but for Maragold, it was a weapon. She started drinking harder, picking fights, showing up at my apartment uninvited. One night she said, “You were always her favorite, Lila. Don’t pretend otherwise.”

I never believed she’d actually hurt me. Not physically.

Until now.

Two weeks later, I was back home, recovering in our apartment. Caleb had postponed the honeymoon indefinitely. He hovered like a storm cloud—gentle, protective, but haunted.

One evening, Detective Duarte called.

“Mrs. Hayes, we ran a tox screen on the syringe itself,” she said. “We found fingerprints.”

My chest tightened. “Whose?”

There was a pause. “Your sister’s.”

For a full ten seconds, I couldn’t breathe.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. We also pulled security footage from the Bellamy Inn’s bridal suite hallway. Around 7:15 a.m., your sister enters your room alone, before the rest of the party arrives. She’s holding a small silver keychain—matching the spare key to your medical lockbox, according to your husband.”

My blood went cold. “Oh my God.”

“We have enough for a warrant,” Duarte said. “But before we move forward, I wanted to ask—do you want to press charges? She’s your sister. Once this goes to the DA, there’s no taking it back.”

I didn’t answer right away.

My heart said yes. My brain said wait. Because as much as I wanted justice, part of me still needed to understand.

Why would my own sister want me dead?

Three nights later, I got my answer.

Caleb had stepped out to pick up dinner when the doorbell rang. I thought it was him forgetting his key.

But when I opened the door, Maragold stood there.

Her hair was messy, makeup smeared, eyes bloodshot—but she was smiling. That same, calm smile.

“Can we talk?” she said softly.

I should’ve slammed the door. I didn’t.

She walked inside like she still owned the place. “You look good,” she said. “Considering.”

“Considering you tried to kill me?” I snapped.

Her expression didn’t change. “You really believe that, don’t you?”

“The police have your fingerprints, Maragold. Your prints. On the syringe. They have video of you going into my room.”

She tilted her head, almost pitying. “And who do you think gave them that footage?”

I blinked. “What?”

She smiled wider. “You think I’d be so stupid to touch something and not cover my tracks? Oh, Lila… you’ve always underestimated me.”

My pulse quickened. “What are you talking about?”

“Do you really think I wanted to kill you?” she whispered. “No. I just wanted to remind you that you’re not untouchable.”

She stepped closer, her perfume sickly sweet. “Everything you have—Caleb, the house, the respect, the job—you stole it all. Mom always said you were the perfect one. But perfection’s a fragile thing, isn’t it?”

I took a step back, shaking. “You need help.”

She laughed—a low, broken sound. “Help? No, Lila. You do.”

Then she reached into her purse and pulled out something small, metallic—another syringe.

My stomach dropped.

Before I could react, she whispered, “Just one more dose.”

That’s when I screamed.

Caleb burst through the door seconds later. He wrestled the syringe from her, pinning her arms as I backed into the wall, shaking uncontrollably.

The cops came minutes after.

When they handcuffed her, she looked over her shoulder and said, “You can’t prove what was in the first one. But you’ll never forget who made you doubt.”

Her smile was the last thing I saw before they dragged her out.

Detective Duarte called later that night. “We’ve got her in custody,” she said. “She won’t admit to tampering, but the lab confirmed her prints match. There’s no doubt she’s responsible. We’re recommending charges of attempted murder.”

I hung up and cried for what felt like hours.

Not because justice was served—but because I knew the one person who’d shared my childhood, my secrets, my memories… had tried to end me.

And deep down, I still didn’t understand why.

Part 3 

The first time I saw Maragold in an orange jumpsuit, I almost didn’t recognize her.

The county jail’s visitation room was gray, fluorescent, and cold enough to make my fingers ache. A plexiglass wall divided us, a heavy phone dangling from the receiver box like something from a movie. She sat on the other side, smirking like she’d just been invited to brunch.

“You look terrible,” she said by way of greeting.

I gripped the phone tighter. “You tried to kill me.”

Her smile widened. “That’s one way to put it.”

“Then why the hell am I here?”

“Because you still don’t get it,” she said softly. “You think this was about jealousy, or Mom, or attention. But you’ve never looked past the surface, Lila. You never do.”

I clenched my jaw. “Then enlighten me.”

Maragold leaned closer, eyes gleaming through the glass. “You’re not who you think you are.”

I almost hung up. I almost walked out of that room right then, chalking it up to her usual manipulation games. But something in her tone—flat, final, certain—stopped me.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.

“You ever wonder why Mom kept you so close? Why she always freaked out about your medical stuff? Why Dad left right after your second birthday?” She tilted her head. “Because you weren’t his, Lila. You were hers… and someone else’s.”

I froze. “That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” she said, smiling faintly. “Mom had an affair. With her attending physician when she was working at Georgetown Med. You were the result. Dad found out. That’s why he left us. And Mom never told you, because she didn’t want her precious little Lila to know she was the reason the family broke.”

I felt the blood drain from my face. “You’re lying.”

“I thought so too,” she said. “Until I found the tapes.”

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I replayed her words over and over in my head.
The tapes.

The next morning, I called Detective Duarte. She sounded skeptical but curious. “We’ve got a warrant to search her apartment anyway,” she said. “If these tapes exist, we’ll find them.”

And they did.

Three cassette tapes, labeled in Mom’s handwriting:

April 1988 — Personal
November 1991 — For Lila
December 1995 — Final

I remember the moment Duarte handed them to me. The air seemed to hum, like static electricity before a lightning strike.

She said, “We can play them at the station, if you’d like.”

I nodded, my hands trembling.

The first tape clicked and hissed before Mom’s voice filled the room—so familiar it hurt.

“If you’re hearing this… it means I never got to explain. I made mistakes—one I’ve kept buried for too long.”

I stared at the speaker, tears blurring my vision.

“Lila wasn’t conceived in my marriage bed. She was conceived after. During a… difficult time. I didn’t mean for it to happen, but she was a miracle, even if she came from something wrong. Her father doesn’t know she exists.”

Detective Duarte gave me a sympathetic look, but I barely registered it.

“Maragold always sensed it. I thought she’d forget. I was wrong. She found a letter once, from her biological father’s lawyer—something about child support I never filed for. After that, she changed.”

Mom’s voice broke.

“If anything ever happens between them… please, forgive them both.”

The tape ended.

The room was silent for a long time.

Finally, Duarte said, “That’s… a lot to process.”

I nodded numbly. “So she knew.”

“Looks that way.”

The second tape—labeled For Lila—was even harder.

“Sweetheart, you have a kind heart. You see the good in people, even when they don’t deserve it. If Maragold ever hurts you, please understand—it’s not hate. It’s grief. She feels like I loved you more. Maybe I did, but not because I wanted to. Because I had to.”

The last tape was shorter.

“They’ll destroy each other someday. I see it already. I just hope… one of them survives.”

That night, I sat in my car outside the police station and sobbed until my throat went raw.

I wanted to hate Maragold. I wanted to blame her for every ounce of pain. But for the first time, I saw the twisted logic behind it—the betrayal she’d carried her entire life.

She wasn’t trying to kill me to win. She was trying to erase the proof that she’d been second best.

Three weeks passed before the trial date. The prosecutor assured us it was an open-and-shut case: attempted murder, deliberate poisoning, clear motive. Caleb came to every pretrial meeting, his hand always on mine, steady and warm.

But there was one thing the prosecution didn’t know.

The jail called me two days before the hearing. The guard’s voice was urgent. “Mrs. Hayes, your sister—she requested to see you. Said it’s about evidence.”

I almost said no. Then something in my gut told me I needed to go.

This time, Maragold didn’t look smug. She looked tired. Her eyes were dull, her hair frizzy, her hands shaking.

“Why did you call me?” I asked.

She exhaled. “Because you should know the whole story before they lock me away.”

I folded my arms. “You mean another lie?”

“No,” she said, voice low. “A confession.”

She told me everything.

The day before the wedding, she’d gone to my apartment under the pretense of helping me pack. She’d used the spare key to the lockbox Mom gave her years ago “for emergencies.”

She’d taken out my shot vial and replaced it with another—one she’d prepared weeks earlier using allergens she ordered online. She knew exactly how to trigger a reaction that wouldn’t look intentional, because she’d studied my allergy profile since childhood.

“I didn’t plan to kill you,” she said. “I wanted to scare you. To make you lose control. To make Caleb see that you weren’t this perfect little goddess. But when you collapsed—when I saw the EpiPens fail—I panicked.”

I stared at her, numb. “You smiled, Maragold. I saw you.”

She looked down. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

“That’s not an excuse.”

She nodded. “No. It’s not.”

Then she slid a folded piece of paper under the glass. “This is my statement. Tell Duarte I’m ready to sign it.”

When I left the jail that night, the air felt heavier—like it carried the weight of both of our sins.

Caleb was waiting in the parking lot. I climbed into the car, handed him the paper. He read it silently, then looked at me.

“She admitted it?”

“Yeah.”

He pulled me into his arms. “It’s over, Lila.”

But as I stared out at the dark horizon, a cold thought whispered in the back of my mind.

Was it really?

The trial came and went in a blur. Maragold pled guilty to attempted murder in exchange for a reduced sentence—fifteen years, parole possible after ten.

When the judge asked if I wanted to make a victim statement, I stood, hands trembling.

“I don’t forgive her,” I said. “Not yet. Maybe not ever. But I understand her now. And that’s worse.”

Maragold didn’t look up when they took her away.

Two months later, Caleb and I quietly married at the courthouse. No guests. No dress. No flowers. Just a small moment of peace we both desperately needed.

I thought that would be the end.

But life has a cruel sense of timing.

Because three weeks after the wedding, I got a small envelope in the mail. No return address.

Inside was a cassette tape.

Part 4 

The cassette tape sat on my kitchen counter for two whole days before I could bring myself to play it.

It wasn’t just fear. It was exhaustion—the kind that seeps into your bones after too much truth. Caleb kept saying, “Maybe you should just throw it away, Lila. You’ve been through enough.”

But I couldn’t. Because the last time I ignored my mother’s secrets, they almost killed me.

So, on a quiet Sunday morning, I dusted off the old cassette player we’d used for the police evidence review, slid the tape in, and pressed Play.

The tape clicked once, hissed softly, and then came her voice—older, wearier, like she was carrying the weight of everything that came before.

“If you’re listening to this… then everything’s come to light. I suppose I can’t hide anymore.”

I felt my chest tighten. Caleb sat next to me, holding my hand.

“You’ve both learned the truth about your father, about the affair, and about what that did to our family. But there’s one more thing I never told you—because I didn’t think you’d understand. I barely understood it myself.”

The sound of her breath filled the static.

“When you were three, Lila, you had a reaction worse than any before. The doctors said your body couldn’t tolerate traditional treatment. So I… I made a decision. I reached out to your biological father. He was an immunologist. He created a serum—experimental, unapproved—that reprogrammed your immune response. It worked. You started getting better. But it was never meant to be permanent.”

I froze.

Caleb frowned. “Reprogrammed your immune system?”

I nodded slowly, my mind spinning.

“He warned me, if the formula was ever altered or mixed with certain proteins, your body might reject its own antibodies. I kept the records hidden—because I knew if anyone found out, they’d take you away. They’d think I was reckless.”

Mom’s voice cracked.

“That serum is what you’ve been injecting, all these years. The ‘allergy shots’ your doctor’s been renewing were just refills of the same base compound. No one ever tested them for what they really were. You weren’t taking maintenance doses, Lila—you were sustaining an experiment.”

My hand flew to my mouth.

“If anyone ever tried to tamper with them—if they introduced foreign antigens, like peanut or shellfish proteins—it would trigger your system to collapse. You wouldn’t just go into anaphylaxis. You’d go into immune shock.”

The tape crackled.

“I told Maragold once. I shouldn’t have. She was fifteen. I thought she’d understand. But she took it as proof that you were ‘special,’ that I loved you more because of it. I never imagined she’d use that against you.”

A long pause. Then—

“If she ever finds out you know… you’re not safe.”

And just like that, the tape ended.

For a full minute, the room was silent except for the hum of the refrigerator.

Caleb finally said, “So… you were never supposed to survive that long-term serum. It’s been keeping your immune system in check, but it’s unstable.”

I nodded numbly. “And Maragold… she knew exactly how to weaponize it.”

He ran his hands through his hair. “Jesus Christ, Lila. She didn’t just try to kill you—she used the one thing your body couldn’t fight.”

My chest felt hollow. “She didn’t even need to. All she had to do was add the right proteins.”

“Which she did,” he said quietly.

I turned toward him, tears stinging my eyes. “But how did Mom’s tape get here? She’s been dead for years.”

Caleb frowned. “You think Maragold sent it?”

I didn’t answer.

But deep down, I already knew.

The next morning, I called Detective Duarte. I told her about the tape. She came by that afternoon, notebook in hand, calm as always.

“I listened to it,” she said after we played it in full. “If what your mother says is true, we might have to reclassify your case. This wasn’t just attempted murder—it could fall under medical homicide protocols.”

I blinked. “Meaning?”

“She didn’t just poison you. She exploited a medical experiment. That complicates everything.”

“But Mom said the only person who knew about the serum was my biological father,” I said. “If Maragold knew that, maybe she…”

“Maybe she contacted him,” Duarte finished. “Maybe he helped her.”

My blood ran cold. “No. He wouldn’t.”

“Do you know who he is?”

I shook my head. “Mom never said his name.”

Two days later, Duarte called with a lead. “We traced the original source of the serum. Your mother’s hospital records show she was treated by a Dr. Alan Rothfield at Georgetown Medical in 1988. He’s still alive. Retired. Lives in Richmond.”

Caleb offered to drive me. Duarte insisted on coming along.

The three of us arrived at a quiet suburban house surrounded by dying autumn leaves. When Dr. Rothfield answered the door, he was in his seventies—white hair, trembling hands, eyes sharp as glass.

He looked at me like he’d seen a ghost.

“You look just like her,” he said softly.

I swallowed hard. “Like who?”

“Your mother,” he said. “I knew you’d come someday.”

He invited us inside, his house lined with old medical journals and photos of research teams. When we explained why we were there, he sat down heavily in an armchair.

“Yes,” he said finally. “I created the serum. Your mother was desperate. You were dying from immune hyperreactivity syndrome. It was a last resort.”

“Did you ever tell anyone else about it?” Duarte asked.

He hesitated. “No. But someone came to see me, a few months ago. Said she was your cousin. Red hair, green eyes.”

I froze. “Maragold.”

He nodded slowly. “She asked about the serum. Wanted to know what would happen if it were ‘modified.’ I told her—under no circumstances should she ever mix it with organic proteins. She smiled and said, ‘Good to know.’”

My breath caught. “You didn’t report it?”

“I didn’t think she was serious!” he said, his voice trembling. “I thought she was just curious. She said you two were working on a family health project.”

Caleb muttered, “She weaponized your formula.”

Dr. Rothfield’s face fell into his hands. “God forgive me.”

On the drive home, Duarte said quietly, “This means premeditation. Months of planning. She knew the exact biochemical reaction she’d trigger.”

“She didn’t just want me dead,” I said softly. “She wanted to erase proof that I was his child.”

Caleb reached for my hand. “But she’s in prison. She can’t hurt you anymore.”

I wanted to believe that. I really did.

But that night, when I got home, I found something on the front porch—a small box wrapped in plain brown paper.

No label. No return address.

Inside was a single object: a fresh syringe.

And a note.

Written in Maragold’s looping cursive.

“You didn’t think this was over, did you?
There’s still something left in your blood that belongs to me.”

Part 5 

I didn’t scream when I saw the syringe.
I didn’t faint, didn’t call Caleb, didn’t even cry.

I just stood there on the porch, staring at the neat little note in Maragold’s handwriting, the words written in perfect, even loops—mocking me.
She was in prison. Locked away. No access to mail without screening.

And yet… the syringe was here.

Which meant someone had helped her.

Detective Duarte came within the hour. She put on gloves, slid the syringe into an evidence bag, and held it up to the porch light.

“Unlabeled,” she said. “Looks identical to your old allergy injectors.”

“She can’t send this from jail,” Caleb said, pacing. “They monitor outgoing mail.”

Duarte nodded grimly. “Which means she had an accomplice.”

“Someone who knows about the serum,” I whispered.

She met my eyes. “We’ll find out. Until then, I need you both to stay somewhere safe. Hotel, maybe under a different name. Don’t go back to your apartment until we clear it.”

Caleb insisted we check into a small lakeside motel outside town. It was quiet, empty—just the sound of crickets and distant highway noise. But I didn’t sleep.

Because every time I closed my eyes, I saw that note.
There’s still something left in your blood that belongs to me.

The next morning, Duarte called. “We ran the syringe through the lab,” she said. “It wasn’t filled with peanut or shellfish protein this time. It’s a compound mix—half saline, half… something else.”

“What something else?” I asked.

“We don’t know yet. It’s not on any known database. We’re sending it to Quantico for deeper analysis.”

“Could it be connected to the serum?”

“That’s what we’re thinking. But, Lila—whatever’s in it, it’s not random. It’s engineered.”

Caleb took the phone from me, voice tight. “Detective, you think she’s trying to trigger another reaction?”

“No,” Duarte said quietly. “I think she’s trying to finish what she started. But not by killing Lila.”

Silence.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“She said something strange during her psych evaluation,” Duarte continued. “‘I made her. I can unmake her.’”

I felt my stomach drop.

“She thinks you’re not her sister anymore,” Duarte said. “She thinks you’re… a creation. Something her mother built and she can dismantle.”

By the end of the week, the lab results came in.

The mysterious compound in the syringe wasn’t poison. It was an antigen trigger—a mix designed to activate the dormant gene expression in my serum.

Dr. Rothfield explained it over the phone, voice trembling: “If you’d injected it, Lila, it wouldn’t have killed you. It would have… undone the serum’s effects. Your immune system would have reset to its original state.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning your body would remember every allergy it ever had. All at once.”

Caleb whispered, “It would’ve been torture.”

Rothfield sighed. “No, Mr. Hayes. It would’ve been death.”

That night, Duarte came to see us at the motel. She looked more tired than I’d ever seen her.

“We traced the package,” she said. “It came from a private mail service near the county courthouse. The person who dropped it off used a stolen ID.”

She handed me a photograph—grainy security still.

The person at the counter was a woman in sunglasses, hair tied back, wearing a scarf over her head.

Even blurry, I knew that posture. That tilt of the chin. That impossible arrogance.

It was Maragold.

My mouth went dry. “How the hell—”

“She escaped,” Duarte said flatly. “About three days ago. Transferred for a psych evaluation, never made it back to her cell. We think she had help.”

“Help from who?” Caleb demanded.

Duarte hesitated. “Possibly someone on the inside. Maybe a medical staffer sympathetic to her story. We’re putting out an APB.”

Caleb ran a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ, this is insane.”

I sank back into the motel chair, numb. “She’s not going to stop.”

“No,” Duarte said. “She’s not. Which is why we’re moving you both into protective custody.”

We didn’t make it that far.

Because that night, at exactly 2:13 a.m., someone knocked on our motel door. Three slow knocks.

Caleb was asleep. I froze. The knocks came again—steady, deliberate.

I crept toward the peephole. The hallway was empty.

Then, from the other side of the door, I heard her voice.

Soft. Familiar. Like a lullaby.

“Lila… open up. You know it’s me.”

Every instinct screamed run. But something—morbid curiosity, maybe grief—made me whisper, “Maragold?”

“You deserve to know the truth. Mom lied to both of us. She lied about everything. About you. About him.”

I shook Caleb awake. He bolted upright, instantly alert. Duarte had told us to call if anything happened, but my phone was on the nightstand—three steps from the door.

“They made you in a lab, Lila,” Maragold’s voice continued. “You’re not her daughter. You’re his. You’re a project. And I’m the control group.”

Her voice cracked. “Don’t you want to know what that means?”

Caleb whispered, “Don’t open it.”

But before I could respond, the doorknob turned.

Locked—but rattling.

Then, silence.

Then a soft metallic click—like a key sliding into a lock.

Caleb lunged for the door, bracing his shoulder against it. “Call Duarte!” he shouted.

I grabbed the phone and dialed.

“Detective! She’s here! She’s outside!”

“Stay put! We’re five minutes out!” Duarte barked.

But before she could say anything else, the lock gave way with a violent snap.

The door swung open—and there she was.

Maragold.

Hair wild, hospital scrubs beneath a stolen coat, eyes glassy with rage and something else—something manic.

In her hand, another syringe.

“Don’t!” Caleb shouted, moving to block me.

But she didn’t aim at me.

She aimed at herself.

And before either of us could react, she plunged the needle into her own arm.

She collapsed instantly. Convulsing, gasping.

Caleb dropped beside her, instincts kicking in. “She’s going into shock!”

I knelt beside him, trembling. “What did she inject?”

Her lips foamed. She reached up, fingers clawing for my hand. “Now… we’re the same,” she whispered. “Same blood. Same code.”

Her pupils blew wide.

Then—nothing.

The paramedics arrived three minutes later.

They couldn’t save her.

The autopsy report came two weeks later. Duarte met us in her office, eyes hollow.

“The compound in her syringe was identical to the one we found on your porch,” she said. “But she modified it—added her own DNA sample. Based on the chemical breakdown, she was trying to merge her genetic profile with the serum’s pattern. She thought she could make herself like you.”

I whispered, “It killed her.”

Duarte nodded. “Her body couldn’t handle it. The immune collapse was instantaneous.”

I stared at the floor. “She wanted to become me.”

“She wanted to erase the difference,” Duarte said quietly. “The thing that made you special.”

The months that followed blurred into grief and confusion.

We buried her quietly—no press, no ceremony. Just a small graveside service at the old family plot, next to Mom.

Caleb held my hand the whole time.

When it was over, he whispered, “You can finally breathe now.”

But even as the wind brushed against my face, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something still lived inside me—something my mother created, something my sister died trying to claim.

A year later, I sat in my doctor’s office for a routine checkup.
He looked over my chart, confused.

“Strange,” he said. “Your allergy markers—they’re gone.”

“Gone?” I echoed.

He nodded. “Completely normal immune profile. It’s as if you were never allergic to anything.”

I left the clinic dazed. Caleb joked it was a miracle.

But that night, as I stood in front of the mirror brushing my teeth, I noticed something small on my shoulder—a faint red mark.

A freckle I’d never seen before.

Shaped like a tiny spiral.

The same mark Maragold had on her collarbone.

And for a long, silent moment, I couldn’t tell if I wanted to cry—or scream.

Because maybe she’d been right.

Maybe the serum didn’t just change me.

Maybe it was still changing me.

THE END